


bear me safely

by everystarfall



Category: Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey
Genre: Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 11:26:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everystarfall/pseuds/everystarfall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebell doesn't get sick. Until he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bear me safely

**Author's Note:**

  * For [serenityabrin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenityabrin/gifts).



> Thanks to my sister for owning the entire Anne McCaffrey canon (including ancillaries) while we were growing up. Title from "Eastern Sea Hold Song" in _Dragonsinger_. Some warnings in the end notes.

Someday Sebell would look back and marvel at the confluence of events that led to him even meeting Master Oldive at all. He never got sick - his grandfather had always referred to him as a “hearty lad;” even if he felt sick, it always got better with a little rest and plain food. He’d never been very physically daring, either, not like a lot of the other boys he grew up around, who would sprain their ankles or break their arms due to overenthusiastic play or foolish stunts. The Holders at Igen had remarked on his health, even, teasing him that all the journeymen got sick eventually - the change in climate or travel or food or people. But not Sebell. After having lived in a dormitory of perpetually ill-washed teenage boys, his health was something he was growing to be proud of.

So he’d never had occasion to go to a Healer, and certainly not to Master Oldive. Sure, there were harp calluses, just like anyone had, but Sebell was used to them, and he knew to stop when they got too bad. It was a good way to pace out his practice, actually.

*

He blamed his lack of experience with healers for the fact that he didn’t go looking for one when he saw Trallan having a fit on the floor of the corridor as he came up the stairs after dinner. By the time Sebell cleared the dropped drum away from the boy and moved him to a better position, Jothy was approaching at a run with another man, whom Sebell assumed must be the healer.

The healer knelt immediately down by Trallan, barely giving Sebell a glance. He was so intent on examining the now-unconscious boy that Sebell didn’t realize his murmured “You turned him on his side, that’s good” was intended as praise for him until it was really past the point of a polite reply. He nodded instead and turned his attention to the other boy, Jothy, who must have run to get the healer when his friend started convulsing.

“It might be best for you to go on to practice, Joth, and visit Trallan later, when he’s feeling better,” he suggested in his most reassuring voice, glancing to the healer for confirmation. Jothy was wringing his hands and looking between the two men, but seemed to make up his mind to take Sebell’s advice when the healer nodded at him.

“Thank you Master Oldive,” the boy said, and turned to leave, but the healer replied that he should thank Sebell instead. Sebell shook his head. “It’s what’s done in the first few minutes that makes the difference,” Oldive insisted, and this time Sebell shrugged. He hadn’t realized that this man was the Masterhealer, and he was disconcerted that the man knew his name. The Harper Hall was a big place.

Jothy mumbled a thank you to Sebell and scampered off, and Sebell looked back to the unconscious patient in time to find Oldive lifting him carefully into his arms. As the man rose, Sebell could see his lopsided stature and automatically reached out to take Trallan from him.

“There’s no need,” Oldive said, standing up and taking a step away from Sebell, towards the turn that led to the infirmary. “I’m quite capable of carrying even this light weight.” Oldive gave a small grin as Sebell tried to stammer an apology at his presumption, and in the next instant Sebell was standing alone in the corridor, feeling unsettled for no reason he could name.

*

Master Robinton caught Sebell on the way to dinner two days later, catching him up on the plans for the spring festival and asking his advice on the placement of some journeymen.

“Oldive said you did well the other day,” Robinton added as they entered the Great Hall. Sebell stopped abruptly, surprised, and Robinton, who had continued ahead, stopped and turned back towards him.

“I didn’t do anything. I just rolled Trallan over,” Sebell insisted, confused that his actions were worthy of mention – to the Masterharper, no less – especially after he had inadvertently implied that the Masterhealer was incompetent or an invalid himself, who couldn’t carry a small child on his own.

Robinton hummed. “And that was what was needed, so Master Oldive said. A clear head is an asset in a situation such as that, Sebell. We are all lucky to have you.” He touched Sebell on the shoulder, turning to go to the round tables.

Sebell moved to the journeymen’s tables, sliding in next to Talmor and surreptitiously inspecting the masters’ tables for the Masterhealer. Oldive was sitting near Domick; his stooped profile was easy to pick out, but he was talking animatedly, as if telling a story, and he seemed younger than all the others at the table. Unless he was focusing on the man’s malformed spine, Sebell couldn’t imagine now how he could think the man physically incompetent. Surely, having such a impediment but not allowing it to _be_ an impediment suggested _more_ competency, even.

“What?” Talmor interrupted Sebell’s thoughts. There was food on the table; Sebell hadn’t even noticed. He reached for the bread, turning back to Talmor.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You made a sound. The ‘aha, I have understood something difficult because I am exceedingly clever but modest’ sound.”

“I didn’t make that sound. I don’t _have_ such a sound!” Sebell grinned, thumping Talmor on the shoulder.

“Alright, keep your discoveries to yourself. By the First Shell, it’s not as though I even _want_ to know the reasoning behind Domick’s obsession with key changes, anyway!” Talmor changed the subject good-naturedly, and Sebell joined in the collective groan over Domick’s latest piece for their quartet. He didn’t look at the Masterhealer again for the rest of the meal.

In any case, Shonager was blocking his view.

*

The first cases of the fever hit a few days later, though Sebell didn’t hear about it until the following week. By then, over a dozen apprentices and journeymen were laid up in the infirmary, sweating and raving and barely able to eat.

Talmor caught Sebell at dinner, after they’d both been at loose ends with Domick’s practice being cancelled. “I’ve found out where he was,” Talmor said by way of greeting. He was grimacing. “He’s caught it, the fever.” Talmor spoke in a low voice, as if by saying it aloud he would also catch it.

“What fever?”

“Where have you been, Sebell? Get your head out of your harp strings! It’s all over! An epidemic! It’s as if we could be living in the time of Moreta!”

Sebell frowned at the reference, making light of such a sacrifice; he always took those stories seriously. “Is it really so bad? How come I haven’t heard? Surely no one is dying?” Despite Talmor’s flip remark, Sebell was concerned – he hadn’t even noticed any of the boys missing at dinner or in chore sections or practice; it was only Domick’s absence that had affected him thus far. And that, in and of itself, was a concern. It was not an accomplished harper who didn’t notice events around him.

“No, I guess no one’s died, maybe it’s not fatal, but it lays you up for at least a week and it’s catching, quickly.”

“I’ll be careful then,” Sebell said dutifully. After all, he had never really been sick in the past; he didn’t see how this would be any different. Talmor was giving him an odd look.

“Right, head back in the harp strings!”

*

At the end of dinner, Sebell was twirling his knife point in the table while announcements were being given; he was sated and warm and drowsy and would have entirely missed his name being called if it hadn’t been for Talmor nudging him in the side.

“What?”

“What do you need with Master Oldive?” Talmor hissed, trying to keep quiet.

“What? Nothing. Why would I need Master Oldive?” Sebell set his knife on the table, carefully; his palms were suddenly slick. Ever since their encounter in the corridor, the Masterhealer made Sebell unaccountably nervous.

“You’re to report to him straight away!”

“Me? Why?” Sebell glanced around the table, but all he saw was the poor attempts of the other journeymen to surreptitiously scoot their chairs away from him. “I’m not sick!” He protested, staring. He narrowed his eyes at Talmor. “Are you having me on?”

“I wouldn’t! Not about this, not with the fever and all. You’re to go to him.” Talmor gestured vaguely towards the masters’ tables. Dermently, one of the journeymen archivists, leaned over towards Sebell from Talmor’s other side.

“It’s true, as he said. Maybe you could ask the Masterharper?”

That decided Sebell. “No, no, I believe you.” Smile. “Just a surprise. The Masterharper is far too busy.” And Sebell would never admit to not paying attention to something so obvious as a summons including his name. What sort of harper was he, anyway?

*

When Sebell arrived at the infirmary, it was quiet and dimly lit with glows, and Master Oldive was sitting next to one of the beds, holding one of the patient’s hands in both of his. Sebell hesitated at the doorway, feeling as though he were about to intrude on a moment that was almost intimate, though there was nothing to suggest anything but a caring professional demeanor on the Masterhealer’s part. He was struck at the amount of concern he could see, in just a small gesture. It wasn’t the sort of thing he encountered often in the Harper Hall. He was used to having people focused on him, but rarely with the intent of caring.

“Ah, Sebell, come in,” Oldive said quietly, having caught sight of him and standing up from the bedside.

“I… you wanted to see me?” Sebell asked, glancing around the small room. There were several cots and a doorway that indicated a larger room in the back, also housing cots. Over half of them had patients in them. Sebell rubbed his fingers together, fidgeting. Never having been sick made him slightly unnerved to be around sick people.

“Master Robinton was kind enough to lend me your services as an assistant for the time being. Several of my journeymen are ill with the fever, and I find I’m a bit short of hands,” Oldive explained, smiling wryly and gesturing to the cots taking up all corners of the room and the one beyond.

“Certainly, sir, but I’m not skilled as a healer,” Sebell felt compelled to make clear. “Truly, I’ve really no experience in-“

“I don’t need a healer, Sebell,” Oldive interrupted, not unkindly, but as if he had already accounted for and dismissed Sebell’s confusion. “I _do_ need an assistant. Robinton thinks very highly of you, and I suspect you’re not prone to hysterics, unlike some others.”

Sebell frowned at the general criticism of his peers, but then was reminded of his friends moving their own chairs to avoid him, not even an hour before. He nodded, smiled. “Well, we a harper must learn many tunes for his craft,” he recited, stepping further into the room.

*

As it turned out, it really was just an assistant that Oldive needed. Sebell found himself fetching water, heating water, washing the overflow of laundry that not even the drudges could keep up with, and running errands for Oldive when he couldn’t leave the patients.

“You a drudge now for the healer? Robinton dump you?” Sebell heard the taunt as he turned the corner, laden down with a pile of freshly washed tunics. Raynor was leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Sebell hadn’t had much interaction with the journeyman harper before; he’d walked the tables when Sebell was at Igen, and Sebell had barely settled back into his routine before the outbreak. He couldn’t imagine what spurred the animosity.

“I’m the Masterharper’s journeyman,” Sebell stated, proudly. “And in this time of need I serve the Masterhealer. I don’t see what concern it is of yours, Raynor, or indeed why you’d be surprised to see crosscraft.”

“Drudgery isn’t craft.”

“Are you offended on my part, or wishing to insult me?” Sebell shifted the tunics in his arms; the pile was unwieldy and he hadn’t planned on a delay.

“Just stating the facts. What kind of harper are you, anyway?” Raynor said lightly, making clear that his questions was rhetorical, and spun on his heel, heading off in the opposite direction. Sebell watched after him for a moment, then sighed and turned his own way, only to trip on the trailing hem of a tunic and drop the whole pile all over the floor, with himself on top of it.

“ _Shards!_ ” hit bit out, picking himself up out of the mess of fabric. They hadn’t been on the floor long, and certainly the hallway wasn’t visibly filthy, but Sebell couldn’t bear the thought of bringing them back to Master Oldive, knowing that they’d been all over the floor, when he was meant to be bringing them back clean. Heaving a sigh, he gathered them all back up and turned back towards the kitchen level, hoping to find someone free who could give them a quick wash again; Oldive would be expecting him already.

*

“Where are the tunics?” Oldive asked, looking up from the boy he was tending to. It was disconcerting, Sebell thought, to have that intelligent gaze fixed on you. Although he knew now how competent Oldive was, for some reason seeing it on his face, in his eyes, was still a surprise. Perhaps Oldive used that to his advantage; Sebell supposed he himself was quiet enough that many were surprised at his rank and ability. Surely many underestimated Oldive, as well. He had, after all.

“They’re not ready,” Sebell sighed, fighting the urge to sit down on the edge of the nearest cot. It had been a long week, his routine was completely uprooted, and Raynor’s harsh tone was grating on him. Not to mention the humiliating failure of being unable to carry laundry.

“They should have been,” Oldive pressed, coming over to sit at his desk, facing Sebell across it.

“I dropped them. They weren’t clean any longer. I took them back.” Oldive was watching him intently.

“Raynor was looking for you.”

Sebell snapped up, staring at Oldive a moment before looking away and taking a breath. He would not react. It was a stupid remark Raynor had made, it had no meaning, and certainly had been intended only to annoy. He would not let it.

“He found me,” he replied truthfully, and headed over to the stand with the basin to wash his hands and change the subject. “Do you need more soapsand?”

“No.” Sebell could feel Oldive still looking at him. “Play something. The boys were saying they can’t hear any music from the hall in this room; they miss it.”

Sebell’s lap harp was in the corner; although Domick was still out of commission, he and Talmor had been taking some time to continue their practice, if only to avoid Domick’s disappointment in their idleness once he’d recovered. He’d had no time to bring it back to his quarters before he was obligated to help in the infirmary.

Shaking out his hands at the wrist, Sebell crossed to the corner, picking up his harp, and settled on the windowsill so he wouldn’t have to look at anyone. He never thought of himself as being particularly misanthropic; surely it was important for harpers to be at ease in social situations, and he was, for the most part. Even disregarding the insensitive remarks of others was something a harper should be able to easily handle. For some reason all of that was harder, just recently.

He played “The Riddle Song” first, because it was haunting and dark and it suited his mood; then he played “Moreta’s Ride,” since it honored a healer. The room was dark and quiet when he finished.

“What did Raynor say to you?” Oldive’s voice was quiet and firm and right next to him. Sebell hadn’t even noticed that the man had moved; he was so stealthy.

Sebell put down his harp and rubbed his fingertips together. “Nothing, sir.”

Oldive put his hand on Sebell’s arm. “I’ve lived among harpers for years, Sebell. I know spun tales when I hear them.” His voice was light, friendly. Sebell risked a glance at Oldive; he was smiling kindly.

“Nothing, truly. Just a remark meant to bother me.” Sebell shrugged, but Oldive didn’t move his hand.

“It clearly worked.”

“No, I was just-“ Sebell trailed off as he caught sight of Oldive’s expression of frank disbelief. “Yes, it did, but, now, it’s alright. I’m alright.” It was mostly true. At least, he didn’t feel so out of sorts as he had when he’d first come back to the infirmary.

“Are you?” Sebell looked up at Oldive’s incredulous tone. He was raising his eyebrow at Sebell, and Sebell noticed then that his own hands were shaking.

“Just tired,” he explained automatically. It happened sometimes, his hands shaking, especially if he’d been playing too much, or after a lot of travel. He hadn’t been doing either of those things, but. It _had_ been a long week.

Oldive moved his hand from Sebell’s arm to his forehead, feeling for his temperature; Sebell jerked back slightly. “I’m not sick.”

“Alright,” Oldive allowed, sitting back. He was looking at Sebell again, studying him. Sebell bristled.

“I don’t get sick,” he protested. “I thought that’s why you asked Master Robinton for my help.”

“That’s not why,” Oldive replied, standing up. “It’s late, Sebell. Get some sleep. You’re dismissed.”

It wasn’t very late – Sebell would have pointed that out, but Oldive had turned completely away from him, making notes on a small sandtable. Sebell could take a hint.

*

Morning often brought the feeling of a smoothed-over sandtable, in Sebell’s mind. Everything was fresh and ready to be attempted anew. Despite a fitful sleep, he was buzzing with purpose and activity by dawn. Sebell made it down to the kitchen level before breakfast to see about the tunics; he brought them to the infirmary without catching sight of Oldive, and this made the day seem even brighter. He liked the Masterhealer; he respected and admired the man’s skill and ability, but being in such close quarters with the man made Sebell nervous – like he used to get before singing solos at his home Hold. Sebell knew his own abilities and was proud of them; he knew the Masterharper valued him, and not without reason. But he was at a loss, still to understand why the Masterhealer had asked for him specifically. Surely he wasn’t the only person in the Hall that could be counted on to run errands without complaint or dramatics?

Of course, even he’d given in to dramatics the evening before, so perhaps that assumption wasn’t far off. Picking up his harp from Oldive’s office, he headed out to play a bit by himself before meeting Talmor.

*

It was possible, Sebell considered later, that he may have overworked himself that morning. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was still on edge from Raynor’s remark, and it seemed like a good idea to play and practice for hours until his fingers bled, to prove his dedication. Talmor looked at him askance.

“You going to get some salve for those?” Talmor jerked his head at his fingertips.

Sebell shrugged and put his hands in his pockets. They were shaking again. “After dinner?” he suggested, smiling. “I’m starving.”

*

Usually playing so hard would be an annoyance rather than any sort of pain, since it left his hands too sore to practice the next day, but at dinner Sebell’s hands were throbbing.

“You alright? You look pale,” Dermently said, taking the basket of bread from in front of Sebell, who had not even noticed it was there to pass on.

“Tired I guess.”

“What happened to you being starving?” Talmor noted, nudging Sebell in the side, as if he’d been trying to get his attention for a few minutes.

“What? Oh, right,” Sebell answered absently. He chewed the bread still on his plate, but it was feeling heavy in his stomach. All the energy from the morning seemed to have abandoned him. He wanted to soak his hands in numbweed and sleep.

*

It seemed like no time at all passed before everyone was pushing away from the tables and scattering to their afternoon assignments and appointments, and for Sebell that meant helping the Masterhealer. Oldive was sending a few boys on their way when Sebell arrived; the fever had run its course for many of the patients, and they were recovered enough to return to the dorms.

“Thank you for getting the tunics,” Oldive said by way of greeting. He was bundling up furs from several of the cots and punching down the rushes to smooth them out.

“It was no trouble. Do you want me to take those?” Sebell stepped forward, reaching for the sleeping furs to take them back down to the kitchen level, but Oldive wasn’t handing them over.

“How are you feeling, Sebell?” Oldive asked, curiously. His dark eyes seemed to be peering into Sebell’s brain.

“Just tired. Played a lot today,” Sebell replied automatically, waggling his fingers to show the blood blisters.

“Sit down, I’ll get you some salve,” Oldive said mildly, setting the furs back down on the cot and moving over to a cabinet filled with various jars. Sebell huffed.

“It’s alright, it’s nothing. I’ll just take these-“ Sebell bent down to gather the furs in his arms, and suddenly the world was spinning – it was like riding a dragon, if the dragon were spiraling upside-down and out of control. He slipped and banged his elbow on the edge of the cot, and would have banged his head, too, if Oldive hadn’t grabbed him around the waist and hauled him up.

“Easy, Sebell, take it easy,” Oldive was murmuring, manhandling Sebell to lie down on the cot he’d just fallen into. Sebell grabbed the edges; everything still seemed to be moving.

“What?” Sebell managed to croak, his heart pounding in his chest from the sudden fall and disorientation. Oldive was lightly probing his elbow where he’d hit it on the cot.

“Just a bruise there. I think I got to you before you hit your head, but…” and then gentle hands were on his head, feeling around his crown for a bump, and then laying across his forehead. They were cool and dry and Sebell gasped at the sudden contrast. “No bump on your head, but you’re ill, Sebell.”

Sebell shook his head, wincing. “Not sick. Don’t get sick.” Words seemed like a lot of effort, but it was important to make it clear: whatever he was, he wasn’t sick.

“You are. You’ve got a fever, and overworking yourself-“

“’M fine,” Sebell protested again, swatting ineffectively at the hands that were stroking his forehead, pressing his shoulders back onto the cot when he tried to sit up.

“Are you saying that I don’t know my craft, Sebell?” Sebell went limp at the tone: a little teasing, a little sharp. A fur was spread over him.

“No, no, you’re good. Good healer. Good harper.”

“You’re the good harper. Rest there a minute.”

Sebell might have whined a little when Oldive moved away from him to rummage around somewhere else in the room; his hands had been so cool on Sebell’s forehead.

“Here, drink this, there you go.” Oldive was back, supporting Sebell’s head so he could lift up and sip from a cup the healer pressed to his mouth. The watered down wine was bitter with fellis juice, and Sebell coughed, leaning over the side of the cot to try and spit it out, but Oldive was in the way, and wrapped his arms around Sebell to keep him from falling out.

“Shh, you’re alright.” Oldive rolled Sebell back onto the cot, dropping the empty cup over the other side so he could use his hands. Sebell grimaced and coughed again, and Oldive touched his head, smoothing down his hair and cupping his cheek. Sebell turned his face into Oldive’s hand. A thumb caressed his cheek; he slept.

*

A weak, early dawn light was filtering through the window when Sebell woke; he immediately groaned, holding his head as he maneuvered himself to sit up on the edge of the cot. Most the patients seem to have left; he was the only one left in the front room, where Oldive’s office was.

Stickiness on his forehead caused him some alarm, but on further inspection of his hands, Sebell saw that a numbing salve had been smeared over his fingertips – probably recently, since it was still wet and getting on everything he touched. He got up gingerly, wary of the dizziness that had overtaken him so suddenly the previous day, and almost fell back over in surprise as the door sprung open and Oldive walked in, carrying a bowl.

“Sit down before you fall down,” Oldive ordered, setting the bowl on a tray.

“I’m alright, I feel much-“

“Sit down, Sebell.”

Sebell sat. Oldive folded himself down onto the cot next to him, taking his hand and holding it to place his fingers against Sebell’s pulse. The room was very quiet.

“Where is everyone?”

“Well enough to be more helped by sleeping in their own beds.” Oldive pressed his fingers against the sides of Sebell’s throat, laid a palm across his forehead. “Is the room still spinning for you?”

Sebell risked a head shake; there was no pain.

“Well, it seems to have hit you hard but quickly; you’ve a slight fever, but you should be alright with a little broth. I’ll get your hands.” Oldive reached for a cloth and gently wiped the excess salve from Sebell’s fingers, holding Sebell’s hands in his as he did so.

“Thank you,” Sebell belatedly remembered his manners. Oldive wiped the salve out of Sebell’s hair and reached for the tray, setting it down across Sebell’s lap so he could have a table for his soup.

“Take your time. You’ve no obligations today,” Oldive said, standing up and smoothing a hand over Sebell’s hair, down to cup the back of his neck, before he quit the room. Sebell shivered slightly from the touch. The nervousness that had been accompanying his time with the Masterhealer had settled into something warm and calm in his chest, flooding out the sharp and sour feeling from the previous days: his upset routine, Raynor’s taunts, the laundry debacle, overwork. Sebell was surprised at how much stress it had been, looking back on it. Sitting now on the cot in Oldive’s office, sipping a light broth, was soothing. As was the phantom touch on his face, the back of his neck.

He was just reaching up to touch the spot when Oldive returned. He intercepted Sebell before he could get up to clear away the tray.

“The Masterharper was here yesterday-“

“Master Robinton was here?”

“Yes, and he left strict instructions for you to rest until you are completely recovered. Here, and not in your room.” Oldive shook out a fur and spread it over Sebell’s legs, gently pushing him to lie down again. He sat down on the cot next to Sebell, taking his hands and stroking them gently. “Instructions I am not keen to ignore,” he added in a lower voice, quirking a shaggy eyebrow at Sebell and reaching up to smooth the hair off his forehead. Sebell caught Oldive’s hand as he removed it, and held it on his chest.

“Yes, sir.”

*

Sebell was in the infirmary for a total of three days, and Oldive seemed to have marshalled his now-recovered journeymen to take care of all the business outside the Harper Hall, since every time Sebell was awake, Oldive was there. It only took one token protest on Sebell’s part, shot down by a stern eyebrow from Oldive, before Sebell relaxed and surrendered to his care. Sometimes Oldive hummed while he worked, and Sebell closed his eyes and wondered if the man could sing, and whether he would accompanied by Sebell’s harp, one day. 

Oldive met Sebell at the door when he was well enough to leave; Robinton had been back, making noises about missing his journeyman. Sebell was debating offering a handshake when Oldive ran his hand over Sebell’s hair, cupping his cheek as he’d done often while Sebell had been sick. 

“You would have made a good healer, Sebell.” Sebell looked up, startled and pleased. He smiled and turned his face into Oldive’s palm, feeling a faint flush at the praise.

“You would have made a good harper, Oldive,” Sebell said quietly, not looking at the Masterhealer in case he took offense at the lack of title. Instead, Oldive’s hand slid around to Sebell’s shoulder and Sebell found himself pulled into an embrace. 

“You can visit healers, even if you’re not sick,” Oldive reminded him lightly. Sebell laughed, face pressed into Oldive’ shoulder. 

“I’ll remember that.” There was a soft touch against his temple, as if Oldive were pressing a kiss there. 

The bell rang; they went down to dinner.

*  
***  
_fin_.

**Author's Note:**

> This work includes:  
> \- vague description of someone having a seizure-type episode  
> \- even more vague description of proper first aid for seizure-type episode  
> \- internalized prejudice of character with physical disability  
> \- insensitive remarks made about social class and perceived roles  
> Please note:  
> \- do not use this information as first aid for seizures  
> \- author knows nothing about harp playing


End file.
